The Tenth Scholar
by Dr. Algae
Summary: It is the Year of Our Lord 1452. A rogue gargoyle sorceress and an exiled Wallachian prince find themselves inexorably drawn towards the legendary Scholomance; a school for the Dark Arts said to be overseen by the Devil himself. His fee... the soul of every tenth scholar.
1. The Black Lake

Gargoyles _,_ _co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney company._ Dracula _, created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone._

 _Special thanks, as always, to Gryphinwrym7, Masterdramon, GregX and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta-reading and feedback._

 _Extra special thanks to_ _BookwyrmPendragon13_ _for allowing me the use of his OC villain; the diabolical Setebos._

* * *

 _"The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due."_

 _~Professor Abraham Van Helsing_

 **Mount Kogaionon, Eastern Carpathians,** **1452 A.D.**

The ancient gargoyle hunched down by the fire, clad only in dark grey robes, probing the flames absently with the sharpened end of her gnarled ash cane. Her skin was a pale grey, her eyes a milky white, as though the years were slowly leeching the color from her. But her most striking features were by far the flat upturned nose and tall pointed ears that gave her face a distinctly chiropteran cast.

"I had known barely thirty winters when I first sought out the Black Lake," she whispered softly. "I had heard the old tales from my rookery parents but paid them little heed. I was young, curious... and foolish."

She inhaled deeply before continuing. "That was before I saw _him_ , rising from the still ebon waters like some dark archangel. He was unlike any gargoyle of my own clan. His face was more human-like, like your own in fact."

The ancient's "guest" stifled a snarl.

"His green skin glistened in the moonlight, eyes darker and deeper than any lake. He was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen." the ancient continued unfazed. "He walked across the water's surface upon cloven hooves, beckoning me with webbed talons. He whispered promises of knowledge and power, ecstasy and life unending, if I would but join him beneath the dark waters. He vowed to be my slave… if I would but be his."

"Why did you not go?" the stranger asked.

"Something in his eyes," the ancient mused. "Something that… hungered."

"You were a coward, old one!" the stranger spat. She was a seemingly young gargoyle, not of the ancient's clan, with pale blue skin and a wild mane of crimson. "With the power of the Scholomance, you could have lead your clan to victory against the humans instead of skulking in these caves!"

"Perhaps," the ancient opined. "But at what price?"

"Where is it?" the stranger demanded, her eyes flashing scarlet.

"You know not what you ask?"

"Tell me!" the stranger snarled, grabbing the ancient roughly by the shoulders.

The ancient's eyes met the stranger's, refusing to look away. "In the mountains… south of Hermannstadt."

The stranger immediately turned to leave.

"Demona!" the ancient called.

The crimson-maned gargoyle paused for a moment, the ancient had never used her name before.

"If you do this…" The ancient shook her head sadly. "Then you are no longer welcome in our clan."

"It is you and your clan who will be begging for a place by _my_ side before long, old one," Demona spoke imperiously before taking her leave of the ancient.

Demona swiftly strode through the network of icy caves that served as the home of the Carpathian Clan. A few gargoyles stopped to eye her cautiously as she passed. Each shared the distinctive flattened nose and high pointed ears of their elder. Many even sported arms and leather wings fused into a single set of limbs, making them look even more like gigantic bats.

Their ancestors had come to these lands from Gaul centuries ago, in the wake of the Roman conquest of Dacia. Since then they had weathered invasions of Hun, Mongol and Turk by withdrawing further and further into the mountains.

For months, she'd tried to convince them to take back what was rightfully theirs, to stand up and fight. They'd been hiding so long they'd forgotten even how to resist. That would all end once she mastered the secrets of the Scholomance, secrets that rivaled even those written in the Grimorum Arcanorum.

She would _make_ them understand. She would lead them in a great crusade across this land, purging it of Christian and Muslim alike. Then the Carpathians would finally become a true homeland for her kind. She was so lost in her dreams of conquest that she failed to notice the two hatchlings that tumbled across her path, giggling as they wrestled in mock combat.

"Watch your step, whelps!" she snapped unthinkingly.

"Sorry!" one of the hatchlings mewled apologetically, she was a deep midnight-blue, with pale moon-white hair.

Her rookery sister was a mousy brown. She hid shyly behind her night-winged sibling despite being the larger, more physically imposing. "W-we didn't see you."

Demona's anger cooled as she looked down on the hatchlings. They were so young, so innocent. They had no idea their rookery parents were willing to sell their futures for the sake of maintaining a present state of comfort. "It is no matter, little one," she sighed before stepping out of the cave mouth and unfurling her wings.

"Are you leaving?" the night-winged hatchling asked.

"For now," she answered before letting the mountain wind take her.

Demona did not notice the three other hatchlings that watched her depart. They were eerily identical, unnaturally so for three gargoyles supposedly of the same rookery generation. They were distinguishable only by their coloring; silver-white, golden-yellow and raven-black.

The three sisters reached a decision without the need of a single word passing between them, before dissolving into dust motes on the moonlight.

[-]

 **The Scholomance**

The Weird Sisters re-materialized within an immense cavern that vaguely resembled the interior of a deserted cathedral. Green candles burned with unnatural blue flames, casting shadows that seemed to move with a will of their own. Every inch of the clammy green stone walls was carved with antediluvian murals depicting indecipherable glyphs and anatomically impossible creatures. The only sound was a slow but steady dripping.

The three glided toward the center of the chamber, where ten stone seats stood before an ancient stone lectern seemingly carved for a being far taller than those expected to sit before it.

"Setebos!" Seline called imperiously to the darkness. "We would have words with thee!"

Instantly, a gigantic wall of flame erupted from the lectern, from it emerged an enormous three-headed dragon, vast leathery wings spanning the entire width of the cavern as its serpentine coils undulated obscenely. Its dark-green skin glistened wetly as it stepped forward on two cloven hooves wide as tree trunks.

"WHO DARES INTRUDE UPON MY-" The Dragon's heads roared in unison before glancing down at the intruders. "Oh… it's _you_ three."

The Dragon dissolved into a glowing mist before coalescing once more into the form of a tall man clad in dark princely robes. His face was narrow and angular. His hair black and slicked back, clinging wetly to his scalp. He appeared human in all respects, save for his pointed elven ears, pale green skin, and the cloven hooves he still walked upon.

"Welcome to my school, my dears" He extended a hand in greeting. "Though I'm afraid you may not find the curriculum to your... tastes."

Seline swatted the hand away. "We did not come to prattle with you, Setebos-"

" _Prince_ Setebos," he hissed. "Whatever else I may be, I am still the son of a Queen."

" _Prince_ Setebos," Luna interjected. "This 'school' of yours directly contravenes Lord Oberon's edict of non-interference in mortal affairs."

"I have never interfered with any mortal," Setebos recoiled in feigned indignation. "If they choose to seek me out of their own free will, well then… they have only themselves to blame."

"Perhaps we should summon Lord Oberon," Luna suggested. "To see if _He_ agrees with your interpretation of _His_ Law?"

"By all means," Setebos answered. "I'm sure he'll also be interested in hearing why you three are not guarding the gates of Avalon, or… why you're so interested in a single Scottish gargoyle?"

The Sisters fell silent.

"Oh… you thought I didn't know about her?" Setebos grinned wickedly. "I think our business here is concluded. You'll forgive me if I don't see you out?"

Phoebe, silent until now, broke ranks with her sisters to block Setebos' way.

"We will fight you for her," the golden-haired sister spoke softly. It was not a threat or a warning. It was a simple statement of fact.

The Prince of the Third Race seemed momentarily taken aback before the realization hit him.

"Fate, Vengeance…" He surveyed Luna and Seline for but a moment before turning his full attention back on Phoebe. "And you."

Phoebe met the fiend's gaze without so much as blinking.

"The gargoyle is no mere pawn in destiny's grand design, no simple weapon of retribution against your enemies. She means something… more to you than that." He leaned down, whispering so only Phoebe could hear. "Surely you realize that only makes her even more tempting a prize?"

Luna interposed herself between her sister and the Exiled Prince. "Perhaps Prince Setebos would be amenable to… a bargain?"

"The rules of the Scholomance are simple," spoke Setebos. "Ten scholars enter, nine leave. The gargoyle would be a rare catch but... if I was provided with something, some _one_ , more enticing then I might be willing to overlook her."

"You have but to speak a name," Luna whispered.

[-]

 **Moldavia**

 _He was not alone. Pure white moonlight illuminated the bedchambers. Dust motes seemed to glide down the silver-beams, dancing before him. Slowly, languidly, they resolved into lithe, gossamer clad shapes._

 _The three women moved towards the bed, towards him, with a slow predatory grace. The Sisters where identical save for the color of their hair. They cast no shadow upon the floor as they drew tantalizingly close. The raven-haired sister licked her blood-red lips, revealing pearl-white teeth that glinted in the moonlight like cut diamonds._

" _Go on," the silver-haired girl whispered to her sister. "He is yours by right, begin and we will follow."_

 _She bent over him with deliberate voluptuousness, allowing her cold weight to press down on him. His nostrils were suddenly filled with her breath, a rancid almost metallic stench._

" _Do you seek vengeance, my prince?" she whispered softly in his ear._

" _Yes..." he heard his own voice murmur weakly._

" _Do you want the power to punish those who stole your homeland, your father's life, and your brother's soul?"_

" _Yes!" he growled as he strained under her weight, paralyzed by her presence._

" _Then seek the Black Lake, there you shall find the power you crave..." Her lips grazed his bare throat. He felt the faintest pinprick of her white diamond-like teeth and then..._

His eyes snapped open, taking in the cold, dark and conspicuously empty bed chamber. The first pale light of dawn filtered through the thin slit-like windows, making everything seem dim and paradoxically less solid than his dream.

He leapt from his bed like a wolf that had just caught the scent of blood on the wind, lighting the lone candle resting upon his desk before hungrily sifting through a small pile of Latin grimoires and Arabic alchemical texts. The dream was already fast fading from his conscious mind, leaving only three words burning themselves into his thoughts like a branding iron.

"The Black Lake," he whispered to himself as his fingers lightly traced over a crudely drawn map of the mountains south of Hermannstadt.

Within moments, he was striding imperiously through the castle halls, clad in his riding gear. His eye caught sight of three servant girls already scrubbing the stone floors.

"You girl!" he barked.

"Y-yes, my Lord," one of the girls cringed, a raven-haired serf.

"Inform friend Alexăndrel of my gratitude for his hospitality, but that urgent business carries me elsewhere," he spoke curtly before striding off into the morning sun.

"As you command..." The raven-haired girl kept her gaze downcast, where only her two sisters could see the faint smile playing about her face. "Prince Vlad."

[-]

 **South of Hermannstadt,** **Walpurgisnacht**

Almost four years had past since Prince Vlad had been betrayed by the Turks and driven from his homeland, less than a month after ascending his father's throne. Since then, he'd been forced to shuffle between the courts of half a dozen different distant relations and supposed allies like some sort of vagabond. Now he found himself riding through the black woods that practically carpeted the slopes of the Southern Carpathians, seeking the power to reclaim what was rightfully his.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. He'd been wandering the weed choked mountain paths for days with no sign of his true goal. Already, the blood-red sky above was giving way to purple twilight. He'd been on the verge of turning back towards Hermannstadt when something caught his eye. A strange bluish light that flickered from somewhere deeper in the foreboding woods.

It appeared to be a ball of azure flame, hovering in mid-air among the trees. It zipped back and forth conspicuously, as though trying to attract his attention, before withdrawing further into the darkness.

Vlad had heard stories of such things since he was a child, phantom lights that lured travelers to their dooms. Some said they were the souls of unbaptized infants flitting between Heaven and Hell. Others claimed they were elven sprites who guarded long forgotten treasures. All agreed that only a fool or a madman would willingly follow them.

Especially on this of all nights...

[-]

Vlad drove his coal-black mount through the ancient Stygian forests. All the while, the will-o-the-wisp danced ever out of reach, taunting him, mocking him. He pushed the beast faster and faster, til at last the sprite was practically at his fingertips. He reached out, almost grasping the wisp, just as it blinked out of existence like a candle being snuffed.

At the same moment, his mount's hoof was caught by a stray root, sending the Prince hurtling into the mud beneath. He painfully staggered to his knees as the horse's frantic hoof-beats faded into the distance.

He howled at the sky above as his fist struck the ground in impotent fury. He cursed his father for selling him into bondage. He cursed his brother for allowing himself to be seduced by the Sultan's decadence. Finally he cursed the God who repaid his faith with naught but inscrutable silence. A lifetime of rage and fear suddenly boiled up in a seemingly endless torrent of blasphemous indictments against Heaven itself.

"Are you quite done, lad?"

Vlad looked up to see two figures looking down on him. He immediately recoiled, hand reaching for the hilt of his blade; a curved Turkic saber.

"Calm yourself, lad," the first figure spoke softly in an accent Vlad did not recognize. He was clad in little save twig sandals, a long dark green skirt knitted from foliage, and a ragged brown open vest. A golden sickle and oak-wood wand hung from the twine that served him for a belt. The lines of his elderly skin were whorled and bark-like, his beard the color and texture of dried straw.

"Stop making idle chatter with the boy, FitzGerald!" the second figure snapped in what Vlad did recognize as French. His blue robes were no doubt rich and fine once, but now they hung from his gaunt frame in dirty tatters. His blue-black beard was caked with filth. His wide unblinking eyes locked on Vlad like a nocturnal animal. "We should spill his bowels here and now!"

"You're welcome to try, fool!" Vlad snarled drawing his blade.

The one called FitzGerald stepped between Vlad and the madman. "Please don't heed Gilles, lad. I'm afraid his mind hasn't been quite right since 1431. Besides..." He eyed his companion meaningfully. "You're a bit old for his... proclivities."

Vlad kept his sword level with the lunatic's throat. "If you desire my friendship, then first declare yourselves!"

"Gerald FitzGerald, 3rd Earl of Desmond in fair _Éire_ , at your service." The Gael bowed before gesturing to his companion. "And my charming friend is Gilles de Montmorency-Lava; Baron de Rais in Brittany, easily the foulest degenerate I have ever met. But he's killed Englishmen by the hundreds, so he can't be all bad."

"Gilles de Rais..." Vlad paused, lowering his blade. "Hero of the Siege of Orléans? I thought you were dead?"

"So did I for a moment there," the Breton tittered darkly, as though at some private joke.

"Is it true you fought alongside-" Vlad began before...

"NO!" de Rais snapped. "You mustn't mention _Her_ name! Not here! Not yet!"

"Easy, Gilles," FitzGerald whispered soothingly as he restrained the Breton. "The lad meant no harm."

"We have to be careful... Can't risk drawing any attention... Even _He_ can't possibly look everywhere at once..." de Rais muttered, unblinking eyes darting in every direction, as though the black woods were alive with hidden spies.

"Of course He can't, Gilles," FitzGerald whispered, softly patting the broken creature's back. "Well, lad. We've told you our names?"

"I am Prince Vlad Dracula, Son of the Dragon and rightful Voivode of Wallachia!" he decreed imperiously before sheathing his blade with a dramatic flourish.

FitzGerald and de Rais exchanged a brief bemused look. "Never heard of you."

[-]

Vlad followed the two indigents through the trees until they came to a clearing, revealing a vast ebon lake whose still waters reflected the moon above as perfectly as a mirror of polished obsidian.

"The Black Lake..." he whispered.

"Come lad, I'll introduce you to the rest of our little community." FitzGerald placed a hand on the young prince's shoulder, leading him down to the gravel strewn shore line. Almost a dozen tents stood rippling softly in the cold night wind. Some were elegant and opulent; cut from rich purple, green and scarlet silk trimmed in gold while others were little better than a beggar's hovel.

Around a dimly glowing fire sat six shadowy figures. One was a snow-haired girl, clad in a hood of samite and a silver ring inset with a shimmering blue-crystal. Next to her sat a grim-faced impossibly aged Slav who stole the occasional lusting glance at the girl.

But it was the next two figures sitting by the fire that caused Vlad to once more draw his blade with a wolfish snarl. "What is this... _filth_ doing here?"

Two dark-skinned travelers, unmistakably Moors, regarded Vlad's blade with cool indifference. One was a gaunt elderly man clad in scarlet robes, a coal-black raven perched on his shoulder. At his side sat a young girl wearing little but white furs, her shimmering eyes contrasting her dark copper skin.

"I see you've found another stray dog, FitzGerald?" the elderly Moor drawled as he offered his raven a scrap of charred meat.

"Now now, lad..." FitzGerald gently placed a hand on Vlad's sword-arm. "Mustapha and Sycorax are merely fellow seekers of knowledge."

"You willingly consort with these Godless heathens?" Vlad hissed.

"Godless heathens..." FitzGerald chuckled. "Where exactly do you think you are, lad? We're practically standing at the Gates of Hades."

"Then these vermin won't have far to travel!" Vlad howled, shaking off FitzGerald's grip as he prepared to pounce on the Moors.

Before Vlad could strike, a blood-curdling inhuman wail pierced the night, a black-winged shadow swooping past the silver moon. He shielded his face as something landed before the fire. His eyes widened in terror and awe as he lowered his hand.

She was like some pagan angel, her skin a deathly blue, wild mane like living flame. She cloaked her devil wings about her, moving with all the infernal grace of a queen of Hell.

All thoughts of the Moors fled from Vlad's mind as he gaped mutely.

"Demona!" FitzGerald beamed, spreading his arms warmly. "I really don't understand why you don't sleep here during the day. I'm beginning to think you don't trust us?"

"FitzGerald, I trust you not to shatter me in my sleep about as much as I trust myself not to tear out your prattling tongue in yours," the she-demon drawled. Her cold gaze turned on the young prince. "Is this the tenth?"

"Demona, allow me to introduce Prince Vlad of Wallachia," FitzGerald lowered his head to whisper in the Prince's ear. "Stop staring, lad. You'd think you'd never seen a gargoyle before."

"I did not ask the whelp's name," Demona snapped. "I asked if he's here to attend the Scholomance?"

"Of course he is!" FitzGerald squeezed the Prince's shoulders reassuringly. "Isn't that right, lad?"

"Good, then make the preparations. Midnight fast approaches and I have no intention of waiting for next Walpurgisnacht." The demon spun imperiously on her heels, tearing a charred limb from the deer roasting over the fire before striding off into the darkness.

"What did she mean?" Vlad asked.

"Do you want the power to reclaim your throne, lad?" FitzGerald asked.

"Yes!" Vlad answered emphatically.

"Even at the risk of your immortal soul?" FitzGerald prompted.

"To free my homeland... I would damn myself a thousand times over." Vlad answered coldly.

"No need to be dramatic, lad," FitzGerald leered crookedly "Just the once should suffice."

[-]

"Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe! Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete!" FitzGerald chanted as he drew the iron blade across the palm of his hand, allowing the smallest trickle of precious crimson to fall within the ritual circle inscribed about the small fire.

The druid handed the ritual dagger to Vlad, who followed his example. He offered the dagger to the gargoyle, who took it without even sparing the prince a glance.

"Orientis princeps Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis, quod tumeraris..." FitzGerald continued to chant.

To each of the ten the blade passed in turn, until it finally came to de Rais. The Breton handled the iron dagger gingerly, as though it was a live serpent that might strike him at any moment.

"Per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus..." FitzGerald's incantation finally climaxed as he cried out the final Infernal Name. "Mephistophilis!"

The moment stretched out into a silent eternity.

"Nothing happened!" Demona snarled, wheeling on the druid. "Your ridiculous ritual failed, FitzGerald!"

"Did the ritual fail, I wonder..." de Rais mused, stroking his filth-matted beard. "Or is it simply... incomplete?"

"What are you babbling about now, lunatic?" Demona drawled.

"Faith, if it hath not works, is dead," the Breton spoke, slowly circling the other nine. "Our Father Below is not propitiated with empty ceremony and hollow incantations but with blood and... torment!"

Vlad cocked an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting, fo..." Before the prince could utter another word, de Rais grasped him from behind.

"The legends _do_ say the Tenth Scholar must be offered in sacrifice to the Scholomance!" de Rais tittered as he held the iron dagger to the Prince's throat.

Vlad's eyes surveyed the other eight assembled about the summoning circle. None of which made any move to intervene.

FitzGerald shrugged. "Couldn't hurt, I suppose."

"You'd be surprised," Vlad snarled before ramming the back of his skull into de Rais' nose. The prince spun around, grasping the hilt of his own blade as the Breton reeled back.

"Insolent ungrateful whelp!" de Rais' wild unblinking eyes locked on the young Prince. He licked the crimson rivulets seeping into his blue-black beard. "I'm going to savor making you scream Our Father Below's name, boy. Even Judas will pity you!"

"You wish to meet Satan, wretch?" Vlad snarled, drawing his sword. "He can come collect your rotted soul once I've cut it from your flesh!"

 _Enough..._

Both combatants, as well as the eight spectators suddenly froze. Vlad's eyes darted about, seeking the source of the unearthly voice. All he saw was empty darkness, the still waters of the Black Lake and... eleven shadows flickering in the firelight.

 _Your mortal antics are... amusing, but unnecessary. All that was required to draw me into your presence was a simple invitation._

The ten watched in cold dread as the eleventh shadow slowly circled the fire.

 _I know each of your most secret desires... power, enlightenment, vengeance, pleasure, to turn back death itself. All these I offer you... and more._

"And in exchange?" Demona scowled.

 _You all know my price. Otherwise you would not be here._

"And who are you exactly?" Sycorax interjected, it was the first time Vlad had heard the Moorish girl speak.

 _Men have called me many names, my dear; Iblis, Ahriman, Chernobog, Barron, Mephistopheles..._

"What do you call yourself?" the Moor asked.

The shadow seemed to pause for a moment, as though surprised by the question.

 _For now, think of me simply as your... School Master._

The still waters of the Black Lake slowly parted in a blasphemous parody of the Exodus, revealing broad slime-slicked stone steps that led from the shore down into a shadowed pit.

 _If any of you wish to walk away, this is your last chance._

The ten stood staring into the watery abyss, none seemed willing to make the first move.

"Typical human cowardice," Demona snorted as she stepped forward, descending the antediluvian steps.

Vlad could not help but admire her boldness as she strode into the darkness below, betraying not a twinge of fear. Sycorax was next, followed swiftly by FitzGerald and de Rais. One by one the other nine vanished into the depths, leaving only Vlad himself standing by the shore.

 _Second thoughts, my Prince? I thought you said you would damn yourself a thousand times over to reclaim your throne?_

Vlad glared at the shadow. "How long have you been listening, devil?"

 _Long enough... It is not an easy thing, to be betrayed by your own brother. Cast out from your homeland, with only your hate to keep you warm at night._

Vlad couldn't help but bristle at the demon's words. "God will punish those who have wronged me, in His own time."

 _Perhaps, but would you truly find that satisfying?_

Vlad stared into the watery abyss. He thought of the other nine. They only sought the power of the Scholomance for their own base desires. They were petty and selfish, unlike him. Only Vlad was truly righteous. Only his heart was pure enough to wield the weapons of Hell against the enemies of Heaven.

 _Well?_

Vlad took his first step down the stone step, then another, until he was lost in the Stygian black. The waters closed over his head, leaving only the still ebon surface of the Black Lake.

 _ **To be Continued...**_


	2. The Red City

Gargoyles _,_ _co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney company._ Dracula _, created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone._

 _Special thanks, as always, to Gryphinwrym7, Masterdramon, GregX and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta-reading and feedback._

 _Extra special thanks to_ _BookwyrmPendragon13_ _for allowing me the use of his OC villain; the diabolical Setebos._

* * *

 _"It is 100 years since our children left."_

 _~Town Chronicles of Hamlin, 1384 A.D._

 _ **Oblivion...**_

 _Gaius stood at the mouth of the bridge in full legionnaire armor, overseeing the steady stream of panicking refugees fleeing the Huns' wrath. Overhead, the gargoyles of the Dacian Clan flew towards the front-lines in hopes of slowing the horde's advance. He_ _had almost begun to believe he might actually survive this nightmare when he saw them._

 _The horde crept over the horizon like a single immense black mass. At its head rode the Devil himself, the Scourge of God..._

 _Attila._

 _The Hun King's eyes burned with inhuman bloodlust as he raised his ebon blade high, every warrior of the thousands strong horde drawing back their bow strings at his wordless command. Then he let his sword fall._

 _Gaius watched in frozen horror as the cloud of black arrows momentarily blocked out the moonlight, before falling like a rain of death. He did not even have time to raise his shield before white-hot agony pierced his throat, sending him stumbling backwards into the cold dark waters below._

 _He_ _felt the numbing darkness of Oblivion embrace him, for an instant or an eternity, only to be broken by a dim tugging on what remained of his consciousness..._

Gaius awoke to find himself within some dank cavern awash with an eerily emerald phosphorescence. His limbs felt strangely numb, his vision oddly dimmed.

Before Gaius' thoughts could properly coalesce, his vision was filled by a madly leering bearded visage. Wide unblinking eyes stared down on Gaius as the fiend shrieked with delight in some barbarous tongue unknown to the legionnaire.

Gaius frantically reached for his spatha, lashing out in a panic at the mad barbarian. His movement was slow and pained, allowing the bearded maniac to recoil just beyond the blade's reach.

Gaius lurched backwards only to find his escaped blocked by eight other barbarians and a Pictish gargoyle. He fell backwards into a brackish puddle, only to be confronted by the most horrific sight yet.

A moldering skeletal face in the corroded remains of a legionnaire helmet stared back at Gaius through hollow empty eye-socket. He reached out with bony fingers only for the ghoulish image to ripple under his touch.

Then a cold, hissing voice spoke the first and last word Gaius had understood since awakening in this Hell...

 _Burn._

[-]

 **The Scholomance,** **1453 A.D.**

Vlad watched as the thing that had once been a Roman legionnaire was swiftly disintegrated by the eldritch flames, until little more than charred bone and ash remained. And the other side of the small cavern, de Rais' gaunt figure stared silently.

 _Now... who can tell me what de Rais did wrong?_

The School Master, currently in the form a massive emerald viper, turned to the remaining eight. It amused the devil to shift from one form to the next depending on its mood.

"He forgot to complete the binding circle," Sycorax spoke. "Without it, he had no means to control the spirit once the cantrips had been spoken. One should never _call up that which one cannot put down_ _._ "

 _Excellent, Sycora_ _x..._

The School Master wound his coils about the Moor's shoulders.

 _Once more, you prove yourself my most... talented student._

"Talented at spreading her thighs perhaps," Vlad muttered under his breath.

The serpent moved with a speed that that belied its bulk, 'til its shimmering yellow eyes were mere inches from the Prince's.

 _Did you have some... insight you wished to share, Little Dragon?_

Vlad stumbled back under the School Master's ophidian glare, "I... that is..."

" _C'est de la merde!_ " de Rais spat.

The School Master wordlessly turned its gaze towards the Breton, much to Vlad's relief.

"What's the point of summoning up these restless earthbound shades!" de Rais ranted. "I did not come here to cavort with this spiritual flotsam!"

 _What exactly did you think necromancy would entail?_

"You promised us the power to turn back death itself, to bring back a soul that had..." the Breton was suddenly seized by a rare moment of lucidity, cutting himself off.

 _A soul that had... what?_

"That... that had passed on?" de Rais muttered, almost to himself. The School Master was still, even he was stunned by this admission.

 _De Rais... do you have any concept of what you suggest? To summon and bind spirits still bound to the Material Plane is one thing, but to call back a soul that has already crossed beyond the Final Gate..._

The serpent loomed over the Breton, its yellow eyes glittering balefully

 _Would require more knowledge and more power than the likes of_ you _could ever hope to possess._

De Rais' fist clenched tightly, his gaunt frame shaking with barely contained rage before FitzGerald placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

The School Master turned to his remaining students.

 _Tomorrow is Walpurgisnacht. From sunset to sunrise you are all permitted to walk in the world above. Make use of the opportunity as you see fit. For now... dawn approaches._

Vlad watched as the other nine scholars dispersed, his eyes lingered for a moment on the silent form of the red-maned gargoyle as she was lost in the shadows of a darkened stone archway.

[-]

 **Walpurgisnacht**

Demona cast off her stone skin with a pantherish cry, eyes flaring bright crimson as she immediately assumed a battle stance. Within a fraction of a second, she had swept the room; only lowering her mace once she was fully satisfied that she was alone. The quarters where each scholar slept was little better than a monk's cell, furnished only with a rickety cot and heavy wooden writing desk; both of which were wedged against the door.

She knelt down to trace her talons across the thin layer of dust that coated the stone floor. It showed no sign of being disturbed during the day, but that did not mean much when one was surrounded by sorcerers and Fair Folk. Still, it would have to do. Demona completed her evening routine by dissembling the crude barricade blocking the doorway.

The rough hewed cave-network beyond was practically a maze. Even after almost a year of surreptitious exploration, Demona had yet to chart the Scholomance's full extent. Sometimes, she suspected the twisting corridors shifted with a will of their own.

The caverns were quiet... preternaturally so. Demona turned a sharp corner only to be confronted with a pair of glimmering eyes framed by a dark-skinned face.

"Why are you skulking about down here, human?" she snapped, talons instinctively reaching for the hilt of her mace.

"Same as you, I imagine," the human called Sycorax spoke softly.

"Where are the others?" Demona asked.

"They've all taken their leave into the upper world for the night, I'm afraid." the girl shrugged.

"And you did not go yourself?" the gargoyle asked suspiciously.

"I have all I desire right here," Sycorax smiled enigmatically before descending even deeper into the tunnels.

Demona watched as the witch-girl was enveloped by shadow. Clearly the human had some ulterior motive in remaining behind. Not that Demona cared, she had her own agenda for this night.

[-]

 **Hermannstadt**

It was little more than an hour after sunset, yet the streets of Hermannstadt were already deserted. Every door and window was shut tightly, strewn with pure white garlic flowers and heavy lead crucifixes hanging from wooden rosary beads. The streets were empty and silent... save for a low melancholic Gaelic ballad.

"Must you wail like that?" Vlad asked his companion

"I have to do something to entertain myself, lad," FitzGerald replied. "We've been traipsing through this city since sunset and we've yet to lay eyes on so much as a single open tavern or whorehouse. How do people _live_ like this?"

"No Saxon in all Transylvania will dare set foot outside their door 'til sunrise. Not on this night."

"Walpurgisnacht?" FitzGerald asked, cocking a bushy eye-brow.

"They believe that on this night, the gates of Hell itself swing open, allowing the devils and the dammed to freely walk the Earth," Vlad snorted with derision. "I suppose there is some truth to that."

"Interesting," FitzGerald chuckled. "We have a similar night in my country. Though we at least have the decency to make the poor souls feel welcome. Families set places at the table for their departed loved ones. Gifts of milk and bread are left out for the Sidhe."

"Pagan idolatry," Vlad snarled.

"I _am_ a pagan, lad, and proud of it!" FitzGerald puffed.

"I'm surprised you didn't insist on bringing de Rais with us?" Vlad inquired.

"I like Gilles well enough, but his proclivities are a tad... extreme for my tastes," FitzGerald surveyed the empty street once more. "Sigh... no point trying to bleed a stone, I suppose. I'm heading out to the woods. Coming, lad?"

"No, I wish to be alone a while longer."

"Suit yourself," the Gael shrugged before vanishing into the night, a jaunty tune on his lips.

"Finally..." Vlad sighed. "I thought he'd never leave." He strode through the sleeping city, savoring the silence. He felt strangely at home under the cloak of night. Somewhere far beyond the city walls a wolf howled, bringing a smile to the Prince's lips.

His mood was broken by the sight of a familiar winged shadow passing across the moon, heading in the direction of Hermannstadt's affluent merchant's quarter.

"Curious..." Vlad whispered to himself, before setting off in pursuit of the winged shadow.

[-]

A few moments later found Vlad standing outside the manor of one of the city's wealthier Saxon merchants. The iron lock had been forced, the heavy oaken door swinging limply in the night wind. The young prince drew his saber before creeping silently over the shadowed threshold.

The rooms within resembled an abattoir more than a merchant's living chambers, walls practically painted crimson. The copper metallic stench of freshly spilled blood forced itself through Vlad's nostrils, provoking a shiver of revulsion. He couldn't imagine ever getting used to that smell.

Vlad's eye was drawn to a tapestry hanging on the far end of the corridor. It depicted a colorful elven figure, dancing as he played upon a thin flute. Behind the figure followed what appeared to be several children, each clad in white.

Something grasped Vlad's ankle in a claw-like grip. He swung his saber downwards, halting his blow at the very last minute. Clinging to his ankle were the portly fingers of a dying Saxon merchant. The Saxon's other hand was clutched tightly about his abdomen, desperately trying to keep his own entrails from spilling out.

"Who did this to you, old man?" Vlad whispered, kneeling down.

" _Blauer... Blauer teufel_ ," the Saxon wheezed as his grip on the Prince's ankle weakened, the last traces of life draining from his eyes.

Vlad's eyes narrowed. "Blue devil."

The prince's ears pricked at the sound of snarling coming from the adjacent study. He crept forward, blade raised high as he peered around the wooden door frame. What must once have been an orderly study now looked like a wild bull had rampaged through it. Amid the wreckage stood the hellish figure of the blue-skinned gargoyle. She shattered a wooden cabinet with her heavy iron mace, sifting through the remains.

"Where is it?" she snarled in frustration to herself.

"Where's what, demon?" Vlad barked as he stepped into the room, blade trained on the she-devil.

The demon's reptilian wings flared. Her eyes blazed like hellish coals for a moment before recognizing her attacker. "Oh, it's you." She waved a taloned hand dismissively, returning to her search. "Begone, child. I'm occupied."

"Did you slay the Saxon merchant?" Vlad demanded.

"And if I did...?" the demon paused, letting her words hang in the air.

"We may be fellow scholars..." Vlad spoke, stepping closer. "But I am still a Knight of the Dragon, I took an oath to protect these lands from all the enemies of Christ!"

"So be it, boy," she sighed exasperatedly, stepping from behind the wreckage as she hefted her mace. "I'll try to make this quick."

Vlad lunged forward, saber-point aimed directly at the demon's heart. She side-stepped him, her reptilian tail sweeping the feet from beneath him. A taloned-hand grasped him by the throat as the other knocked the blade from his grip with inhuman force. His feet kicked impotently inches above the floor as the demon lifted him aloft, her talons digging into his throat.

"Take comfort, boy," she drawled, raising her mace. "This is probably a kinder fate than what our so-called 'Master' intended for you." Before she could deliver the fatal blow, something caught the demon's ear.

Somewhere in the rooms above... a floorboard creaked.

"Damn me for a fool!" the demon hissed, tossing the young prince aside and bounding from the study.

Vlad leapt to his feet, sweeping up his fallen saber as he took off in pursuit of the demon. He was just in time to catch sight of her loping up the staircase on all fours. He raced after her only to come to a complete stop at the moonlit landing.

Gargoyle and human both watched as a third figure emerged from a darkened door. It was clad entirely in black save for a porcelain blue mask fashioned in the image of a leering bearded devil. In one hand it held a small wooden case, and a bloodied scimitar in the other. It cocked its head as it regarded the newcomers, shaking as though in silent laughter.

"The blue devil?" Vlad whispered.

Demona's eyes locked instantly upon the small wooden case. "Thief!"

The Blue Devil spun around and leapt through a moonlit window, leaving shattered glass in its wake. In an instant the gargoyle was once more on all fours and on the trail of her quarry, leaving Vlad alone in the manor.

The prince was about to give chase himself, but paused outside the darkened door the Blue Devil had emerged from. He could see nothing beyond the frame but pitch-black. Every muscle in his body tensed as he cautiously crossed the threshold, only to feel something soft yield beneath his thread. He looked down...

Beneath his boot lay a discarded felt doll.

[-]

Demona soared over the low red skyline of Hermannstadt. Her eyes locked on the masked thief leaping from rooftop to rooftop just below. She dived with a bloodcurdling wail, mace held high and ready to crush the offender's skull with a single blow.

The thief managed to leap aside at the last moment, causing Demona's mace to sink deep into the crimson roof-tiles. Before she could wrench her weapon free, the masked figure drew a second scimitar from a back mounted scabbard and lunged forward.

The thief moved with surprising speed. Demona had no doubt she could easily tear the wretch limb from limb with her bare talons, if only she could get within reach. As it was it took all her natural agility just to stay one step ahead of the twin whirling blades.

Demona hissed in pain as a blade grazed her arm drawing forth a thin crimson trickle. She lurched back, hand pressed to the wound. It wasn't serious, even for another gargoyle but it was still too close for comfort.

The thief's blue mask seemed to mock her with its frozen leer. Their frame shook silently once more, this time accompanied by the unmistakable sound of barely suppressed tittering.

Demona backed-up against a wall, wings flared and eyes blazing crimson, her talons flexed. If she was to die to night, she would do everything in her power to ensure she did not die alone. The thief lunged forward, scimitars held high.

The thief's attack was cut short by what sounded like the howls of a blood-mad wolf, as the whelp from the manor barreled into them. The boy's face was contorted into a mask of feral rage. He lashed out with his own saber again and again, recklessly indifferent to his own safety as his masked foe parried each blow.

Demona watch the pair, calmly retrieving her mace. She supposed the wisest course would be to simply let the fools kill each other but pride got the best of her. She charged forward, mace swinging...

The thief moved with preternatural speed, simultaneously blocking both the boy's blade and Demona's mace. All three combatants leapt back, slowly circling each other. The thief's azure mask tilted quizzically, as though in mental calculation, before making a run for the roof's edge.

"NO!" the boy howled as he and Demona gave chase.

The thief reached the edge, turned to give their pursuers a mocking courtly bow, and hurled themselves into the darkness below. Demona and the boy stared down only to be greeted by the sight of a silent and empty street.

"No... no...NO!" The boy raged.

"Control yourself, human," Demona drawled. "You'll wake half the city!"

"Don't you dare condescend to me! You didn't see what I saw... back there... in that room..." The boy shook, falling into a cold whisper. "Death isn't enough. He has to be... broken first. He has to be made to bleed and weep and _beg_ for the end."

Demona placed her talons on the human's shoulder. "He will."

"How?" the boy snarled. "Dawn is only a few hours away. By next Walpurgisnacht, he could be on the other side of the continent!"

"Oh, I doubt that," Demona intoned. "I've been tracing the talisman he stole for years. Only one versed in the mystic arts could recognize its true worth."

"Wait," Vlad's eyes widened. "You're saying that... beast, is one of us?"

"I propose a pact, Prince Vlad," Demona purred, extending her hand. "Help me retrieve the talisman, and I'll happily render the culprit unto your tender mercies."

The Prince gripped her wrist in a warrior's handshake. "Agreed."

[-]

Gilles de Rais laid the wooden case down next to the leering blue-bearded devil mask. His tiny cell was littered with moldering refuse. The walls were covered in countless scratched text, copied from ancient grimoires, Holy Scripture as well as the Breton's own incomprehensible ramblings. He lifted the case's lid to reveal a thin elegantly crafted flute. His unblinking eyes widened with avaricious glee.

"The Puck's flute? An impressive find," A voice whispered darkly in the Breton's ear.

De Rais spun around to be confronted by a tall princely figure clad in black. Seemingly human save for his sallow green skin, pointed elven ears and cloven hooves.

"School Master!?" de Rais sputtered as he prostrated himself. "How might this lowly mortal wretch serve you?"

"You can start by not insulting my intelligence," Setebos hissed.

"Master... I..." de Rais fumbled.

"Did you truly believe I would not recognize you for what you were the instant I laid eyes upon you?" Setebos intoned darkly as clawing shadows filled the room. "Do you truly believe I'm that stupid... _Barbe Bleue?"_

De Rais fell silent.

"I don't know what you expect accomplish with this charade, but I'm willing to humor you..." Setebos whispered as he faded back into the shadows. "Provided you play by the Rules."

" _Salopard!_ " de Rais snorted once he was certain he was alone. He leapt to his feet, clearing away a pile of debris in the corner of his cell to reveal a small shrine. At its center was a portrait of an angelic young woman with short cropped hair, clad in gleaming plate armor and bearing a banner of purest white.

"Forgive me, oh Holy Virgin, for using such crude language in your presence," de Rais whimpered, prostrating himself before the icon. "And for dawdling in that merchant's manor but... well, you know self-control never was one of my virtues." He broke down into a dark tittering.

"We'll be together again soon, my Virgin... my Angel... " De Rais reached out, gently caressing the image.

"My Jeanne."

 _ **To be Concluded...**_


	3. The Blue Devil

Gargoyles _,_ _co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney company._ Dracula _, created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone._

 _Special thanks, as always, to Gryphinwrym7, Masterdramon, GregX and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta-reading and feedback._

 _Extra special thanks to_ _BookwyrmPendragon13_ _for allowing me the use of his OC villains; the diabolical Setebos and the sinister... well, you'll see._

* * *

 _"Exactly. Holiness requires as great, or almost as great, an effort; but holiness works on lines that were natural once; it is an effort to recover the ecstasy that was before the Fall. But sin is an effort to gain the ecstasy and the knowledge that pertain alone to angels and in making this effort man becomes a demon. I told you that the mere murderer is not therefore a sinner; that is true, but the sinner is sometimes a murderer. Gilles de Raiz is an instance. So you see that while the good and the evil are unnatural to man as he now is-to man the social, civilized being-evil is unnatural in a much deeper sense than good. The saint endeavours to recover a gift which he has lost; the sinner tries to obtain something which was never his. In brief, he repeats the Fall."_

 _ _~Arthur Machan__

 ** **Nantes, France, 1440 A.D.****

The white hot light of the near-noon sun lanced directly into his eyes as they led him out. He raised his shackled hands the shield the worst of the glare. That's when he saw it... the noose swinging softly in the wind.

His ears were immediately assaulted by a baleful cacophony of bloodthirsty howls and anguished wails. Along either side of the path ahead stood a line of grim faced men-at-arms, holding back the mob that howled for his blood.

He paused, wondering if this is how __She__ had felt all those years ago.

The mob were peasants mostly, with an unusual amount of women for a hanging. No doubt, the mothers of those little ones who had come to his castle with empty bellies and pleading eyes. And had he not filled their bellies?

Had he not pampered and doted on them, affording them every luxury they could imagine? Had he not treated them like little Princes and Princesses... before sending them to take their rightful places among the Angels.

He peered over his shoulders to watch as the guards dragged Henriet and Poitou behind them. His former accomplices begged and pleaded for mercy as they were drawn inexorably towards the gallows. Wretched cowards, he thought. Their deaths had been ordained since the moment they were born. The least they could do was meet them with some dignity.

He was old, older than many suspected. Over the course of his long life, he had sampled every agony and ecstasy known to man save one. Death held little terror for him. He would go into oblivion without resistance. She would expect no less.

Still, he might have put up more of a fight if not for the heavy shackles of cold iron that bit into his ankles and wrists.

The guard led him up the rickety wooden steps, where a sallow-face magistrate clutched a crinkled scroll.

"Gilles de Montmorency-Laval; Baron de Rais," the magistrate intoned solemnly. "You have been judged by the laws of God and man, found guilty of abominations against Nature itself, and justly sentenced. Have you anything to say before we administer justice?"

De Rais turned his wide unblinking eyes on the magistrate, flashing the bureaucrat a simpering smile through his dirty blue-black beard. "As a matter of fact, I do."

The Magistrate recoiled under the Baron's frozen gaze.

"People of France!" de Rais implored over the howling mob, shackled hands raised to the heavens. "There is no excuse, no justification or mitigating circumstances that can wipe away my sins. So I offer none. My only prayer is the Holy Virgin will have pity on this... the most wretched and fallen sinner in all Creation, and that She in Her infinite love and grace might welcome me once more into her embrace."

The mob seemed slight taken aback by the frankness of his admission.

"And if not..." De Rais turned to the cringing Henriet and Poitou, a serene smile still upon his lips. At least they would all burn together. "Die bravely, my friends."

De Rais offered no resistance as the hangman coiled the noose around his neck. His executioner disembarked from the gallows with the magistrate in tow. The next thing he knew, the wooden planks gave way beneath his feet.

In that instant, all de Rais' courage and philosophy deserted him. His feet kicked desperately at the empty air, weighed down by heavy iron manacles. He felt heat begin to prickle his skin and smoke sting his eyes as the scaffolding beneath was set alight; a small taste of the everlasting fires that awaited him.

He would have screamed had not the rope already crushed his windpipe. As it was, all he could do was mouth a single silent word of prayer before the blackness claimed him...

 _ _Jeanne.__

[-]

 ** **The Scholomance, 1454 A.D.****

Demona's eyes blazed blood-crimson as she pounced with a pantherish snarl, swinging her heavy iron mace an arc of certain death for any caught in its path. The young prince would have easily been decapitated had he not ducked low at the last second.

Vlad saw his opening, slashing forward with his saber, opening a thin scarlet line along the gargoyle's side. He allowed himself a brief smile of triumph before she swung her mace once more.

This time Vlad blocked. The bones in his arms nearly shattered under the she-demon's inhuman strength. Yet he managed to embed the blade deep in the wooden handle of his opponent's weapon; locking them both in place

Vlad barked a single harsh laugh of triumph as his confidence overtook him. That was before Demona raised her foot and sent him hurtling into the cold stone wall with a single well placed kick to the chest.

Vlad let out a pained groan, looking up through bleary eyes to see the she-demon raise her mace.

"Now... to end this farce," Demona intoned coldly, before allowing the mace to fall.

Vlad flinched, screwing his eyes tight. After a moment, he opened them to reveal the spiked mace hovering just inches from his face.

"Do you yield?" the gargoyle asked, a satisfied smirk playing across her face.

"I... I yield," Vlad finally spoke, practically spitting out the words.

"This is not your father's palace, boy," Demona spoke, returning her mace to its place on her belt. "I warned you when I agreed to these sparring sessions that I would not coddle you."

"When my brother and I were children..." Vlad winced, hauling himself upright before retrieving his saber. "Our father would tie us to posts outside on stormy days to build physical and moral character."

"The results seem to have been mixed," she drawled.

Before Vlad could reply, a wisp of flickering blue fire darted into the stone chamber. It briefly danced before the two warriors before morphing into the flaming image of a demonic visage.

"Scholars..." the sibilant voice of the School Master intoned through the will-o-the-wisp. "Assemble in the library."

[-]

The library was probably the only chamber in the entire Scholomance that was completely dry. Most of the ancient grimoires were chained to their shelves. In some darkened corner, dusty pages rustled with a sound that one could almost mistake for whispering. At the very center of the chamber stood a tall stone lectern. Upon it lay a heavy tome bound in what seemed to Demona like the blackened hide of some monstrous reptile.

Beside the lectern, stood the School Master. The creature had chosen to clad itself in the form of a portly Franciscan friar. The sprite grinned stupidly at the assembled scholars; no doubt terribly impressed with its own wit.

"Welcome, my students! Tonight, I have a special treat for all of you," the false friar beamed; gesturing to the Black Book. "This... is the __Tenebris Custodia__ ; the Book of Sins; That Which Holds the Darkness."

The ten exchanged silent quizzical looks.

"Contained within its pages lies the combined mystical knowledge of all my previous students. So, who wants to look first? Perhaps you... Demona?"

Demona bristled slightly at being singled out by the fiend, but could not resist the opportunity to slake her curiosity. She stepped up to the stone lectern, opening the black book. She began flipping through the yellowed leaves, slowly at first but gradually growing faster; her frustration building with each turn of the page.

Blank... every single page was blank.

"What manner of twisted jest is this?" she snarled, rounding on the false friar.

"You should all know by now..." The fiend gave another simpering smile. "Nothing in the Scholmance comes without a price."

Demona glared at the empty pages, as if she could force them to reveal their secrets through sheer force of will. As she bitterly turned another page, the razor thin paper sliced her finger.

"Blast!" Demona hissed as a single red drop fell upon the yellowed parchment. She watched as the crimson stain moved with a life of its own, forming into Latin letters that Demona recognized as half-remembered spells from the Grimorum Arcanorum.

"The __Tenebris Custodia__ has found your offering of knowledge worthy," the false friar intoned in quite satisfaction.

Demona watched as the scarlet letters shifted once more. This time they traced out the image of what appeared to be a weathered clay tablet, inscribed with barely legible Latin letters. Beneath the drawing, three words were spelled out in blood red...

Cᴀʀᴍɪɴᴇ ɪɴ Cᴏɴsᴜᴍᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴍ

"The Fulfillment Spell?" Demona whispered in awe, before her own blood was totally absorbed by the ancient yellowed pages; leaving them immaculately blank once more.

The School Master turned to the other eight. "Now... FitzGerald, I think?"

"Blood..?" FitzGerald muttered, drawing his golden sickle. "Why does it always have to be blood with you people?"

Demona surreptitiously craned her neck to catch a glimpse as FitzGerald drew the golden blade across his palm. Unsurprisingly, the Gael's blood formed itself into Ogham; the holy script of the ancient druids. From what little she could make out, the elder letters seemed to be describing some sort of soul-transference spell. FitzGerald was either bold or reckless to be dabbling in such things.

"Koschei," the School Master called as the aged Slav stepped forward from among the ten.

One by one, each scholar made their contributions until...

"And I believe that is everyone," the false friar intoned, turning to shut the black book.

"With all due respect, School Master," Sycorax interjected. "I believe you overlooked Baron de Rais." The Moor gestured to the Breton who had been skulking silently in the shadows.

"Oh..." the false friar murmured, his broad smile falling into an irritated grimace for the first time. "Well... I suppose every little bit helps."

De Rais' unblinking eyes shot Sycorax a look of pure hate as he stepped towards the stone lectern, drawing a wickedly curved dagger from his tattered blue robes.

Demona stood off to the side, watching as the small trickle of the Breton's blood twisted into a few disjointed lines of Latin, French, and what briefly appeared to be the image of a simple wooden flute. It took all the gargoyle's self-control not to betray any reaction.

A moment later, de Rais' blood shifted into what seemed the be a crude map of the Carpathians of all things. None of the other scholars noticed the leer that curled across the Breton's lips as his unblinking eyes fixed on one location in particular.

[-]

 ** **Walpurgisnacht****

Sycorax glided silently through the twisting corridors of the Scholomance. Her bare feet made not even the slightest sound as they trod across the cold damp stone.

The Moor halted in mid-step, some instinct scratching at the very edge of her mind. She spun around with a single cat-like motion, dark eyes surveying the empty cavern behind her. She stood eerily still, watching... waiting.

After a single agonizingly long moment, the seemingly satisfied Moor turned back to her path, descending even deeper into the depths of the Scholomance.

A few minutes later, Demona and Vlad emerged from their shadowed hiding place.

"Finally..." Demona muttered. "What is she even still doing down here?"

"I have my suspicions," Vlad drawled.

"It does not matter," the gargoyle hissed. "She is not our quarry this night."

They crept their own way through the winding caverns 'til they finally came to a heavy oaken door that marked the entrance to de Rais' private cell.

"Why are we even here?" Vlad hissed. "If you're right we should be out there hunting de Rais down, not rummaging through his belongings like common thieves!"

"Remember our bargain, boy," Demona whispered, kneeling down to examine the iron lock. "Once I have the flute, the degenerate is yours."

The gargoyle removed a golden armlet that sat just above her elbow; straightening it into a crude lock-pick. After a few moments of carefully exploring the keyhole, the lock finally surrendered with a dull click; allowing the heavy wooden door to swing inward with an agonizing creak.

"Impressive," Vlad muttered with barely veiled admiration.

"You'd be surprised the things one picks up after five centuries," Demona commented dryly.

De Rais' tiny cell was littered with moldering refuse and grisly trophies. The walls were covered in countless scratchings, seemingly copied from ancient grimoires, Holy Scripture as well as the Breton's own incomprehensible ramblings.

"What madness is this?" Vlad exclaimed.

Demona's eyes narrowed. "It appears to be some sort of necromantic summoning."

"Like the ones the School Master taught us?"

"Aye, but one intended to be vastly more powerful. Only... it's been cobbled together from at least half a dozen different sources."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning de Rais is either a thaumaturgical prodigy..." Demona's lip curled in disdain. "Or he's a dangerous idiot." Her eyes swept the room coming to a rest upon a small icon set in the corner; depicting the image of an fair-haired woman clad in shining plate-mail.

"Is that...?" Vlad left the question hanging.

"Jeanne d'Arc; the Maid of Orléans..." Demona whispered. Kneeling to examine the icon. "An illiterate peasant girl who rallied a besieged kingdom and drove back its enemies by the sheer force of her faith. Until, in typical human fashion, she was betrayed by her own people."

Vlad cocked an eyebrow. "You speak as though you were there?"

"Keep searching," was the gargoyle's only response.

Vlad gingerly reached beneath the filth-matted cot. His fingers gripped around something cool and smooth. Drawing them back revealed a lurid blue-bearded devil mask; leering at him mockingly.

 _He stepped across the threshold of the shadowed door, looking down... beneath his boot lay a discarded felt doll._

Vlad cast the mask aside, struggling to banish the images from his mind. "You were right, Demona. De Rais was the Blue Devil. Now we need only find the dog and peel the flesh from his... Demona?"

The gargoyle was studying an ornately detailed map of the Eastern Carpathians inked upon yellowed parchment. Two locations in particular were circled in red. One Vlad recognized as being somewhere in the Borgo Pass near Bistritz. The other...

"No..." she whispered.

[-]

 ** **Mount Kogaionon, Eastern Carpathians****

"I am... the Strigoi!" the night-winged hatchling hissed melodramatically; a wing drawn over the lower half of her face in a fashion she imagined to be rather ominous. "And I want... to drink... your blood!"

The mouse-brown hatchling squealed in not entirely mock terror; fleeing as her night-winged rookery sister gave chase. The two hatchlings raced through the icy caverns, heedless of all else, until they found themselves slamming into a leathery yet unyielding barrier.

The two hatchlings looked up to find a massive adult male gargoyle glaring down on them, an eye-ridged cocked quizzically and arms crossed.

He was a rust-red with the same Chiropteran flat nose and high pointed ears that characterized all his clan. Membranous wings extended from his crossed arms; making him seem even more like a gigantic man-sized bat. He was the Leader of the Clan, but the hatchlings knew him better as...

"Father." the night-winged hatchling muttered sheepishly.

"I suppose you two think strigoi are a laughing matter?" the red giant intoned sternly.

"I um... n-no, sir," the mouse-brown hatchling mumbled, hiding behind her sister's wing.

Their rookery father's chest rumbled with a low exasperated chuckle. "At least try to look were you're going from..." His head tilted, bat-like ears perking up.

"Is something wrong?" the night-winged hatchling spoke.

"Don't you hear that mu..." the Clan Leader's eyes glazed over, before he collapsed on the cold cavern floor.

"Father!" the hatchlings cried rushing to their fallen leader's side.

"W-w-what's wrong with him?!" the mouse-brown hatchling stammered

"I... I don't know," her night-winged sister answered, struggling to contain her panic. "We should find the ancestor... she'll know what to do!" The two hatchlings raced through the caverns, finally skidding to a stunned halt in one of the central chambers.

Dozens of adult gargoyles lay unconscious and scattered across the cold stone, surrounded by just as many sobbing and frightened hatchlings.

"Wh-w-what should we do?" the mouse-brown hatchling whimpered, turning to her night-winged sister almost instinctively. Several of their rookery siblings followed her lead.

"I... I think we should..." Her words trailed off as something caught her attention.

It was music, the most beautiful music she had ever heard. It cut through all her fear, emptying her mind and filling her entire universe. The plight of her rookery parents seemed distant and unimportant, like something that had happened long ago in a far away land. If she noticed the same enchanted glaze in the eyes of all her rookery siblings, she paid it no mind as they all walked together towards the cavern's opening.

Each hatchling of the Clan flared their wings as they leapt from the lip of the cave's mouth, letting the mountain winds carry them wherever the music bid.

[-]

Vlad winced imperceptibly as the cold mountain winds clawed at his bare face like icy talons. Even the riding cloak drawn tightly about his shoulders did little to keep the chill from his bones.

Still, he kept his discomfort to himself. It would not do to show weakness in front of Demona. Especially when she was currently carrying him aloft high over the jagged peaks below.

"We'll set down here," Demona yelled against the wind as they came to a landing atop a rather unremarkable rocky out-cropping.

Vlad surveyed the barren rocks with something approaching disappointment. "This is your clan's home?"

"I have no clan," Demona intoned coldly. "Regardless, I'm not bringing a human anywhere near the Carpathians' rookery. Wait here until I get back."

"But-" Vlad attempted to interject.

"This is not up for debate," Demona snarled before leaping from the out-cropping, wings flared.

Vlad watched silently as her form disappeared into the night sky.

[-]

The grim grey mass of Mount Kogaionon loomed out of the thin mists as Demona made her approach. Before she could draw any closer, the night was shattered by a chorus of anguished roars full of rage and grief.

Demona immediately alighted in the mountain's foothills, hiding in the brush as she watched dozens of winged shapes take to the starry sky above. The logical next step would be to warn them of de Rais' plot, to recruit them to her cause.

But that would mean explaining exactly how she knew the mad Breton...

[-]

Vlad's head perked up as winged shadow passed over him. "Well...?"

"They were already gone by the time I got there," Demona spoke as she landed. "We'll have to deal with de Rais alone." She pulled out the map tucked in her belt. "Fortunately, we know where he's going."

[-]

 ** **Elsewhere****

De Rais gently laid a single charred human rib at the exact center of the four cyclopean stone pylons that made up the Megalith Dance, cradling it as though it was the most delicate flower in all Creation. It was all he had left of _Her_.

They'd burned her to death... but even that was not enough for the swine. The body had been reconsigned to the flames twice over. Finally in a single act of blasphemy that put even his own depredations to shame, Her ashes had been scattered across the Seine. This one fragment had cost half his fortune. "Be patient with me a little longer, my Holy Virgin."

The hatchlings stolen from the Carpathian Clan stood silently before the Dance, their eyes glazed and dull. Pale skeletal talons slowly reached out from the darkness beyond, towards the nearest gargoyle.

" _ _Ignis Venite!__ " de Rais cried, unleashing a ball of blue flame that instantly incinerated the owner of the offending talons. The cerulean light briefly illuminated several gaunt pale shapes that immediately recoiled further into the shadows.

"WHAT DID I SAY!?" the Breton shrieked. "These little ones belong to ME!"

"So... thirsty..." something hissed from the darkness. "Promised... food..."

"After I get what I came for, I'll use the Puck's flute to bring every child in Transylvania, Moldavia and Wallachia to your doorstep. Then we'll all... feast." de Rais purred, brandishing the flute. "Provided you keep your end of the bargain. No one enters this chamber dead or alive until the ritual is complete or you get nothing!"

"So... be it..." the voice hissed, withdrawing to the pits that spawned it... for now.

Satisfied, de Rais turned his attention towards the nearest hatchling. Her chiropteran features reminded him so much of the _gargouilles_ of his own homeland. She was even his favorite color; a rich midnight blue.

"Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me..." the Breton whispered softly, raising the hatchling's head to stare into her cold empty eyes.

"For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."

[-]

 ** **The Borgo Pass****

Demona knelt down to examine the countless tiny claw prints leading into the cave-mouth that yawned before them like the maw of some hungry beast. Scattered about were several thick crumbling stone walls that marked this as the site of an ancient fort. "He's not even bothering to hide his tracks. Either he's not expecting pursuit or..."

"He's laying an ambush," Vlad spoke, drawing his blade as Demona lit the crude torch she had constructed, before they both descended into the earth.

After a few feet, the rough tunnel soon gave way to a corridor far too precisely hewed to be the work of blind nature. The stone walls were inscribed with eons-weathered hieroglyphs depicting men, gargoyles and creatures yet stranger.

"What do you suppose all this means?" Vlad mused, running his hand over the bizarre carvings.

The narrow corridor eventually opened out into a spacious cavern, the two warrior's every step echoing louder than either of them would have liked.

Something brittle snapped beneath Demona's feet. She lowered her torch, revealing the cave floor to be littered with countless moldering human bones.

Her free hand tightened about the shaft of her mace.

Demona spun around as something pounced from the darkness with a serpentine hiss. The gargoyle caught only a glimpse of a pale nightmarish visage before she felt needle like fangs sink into her shoulder.

Vlad's blade flashed, severing the creature's neck. Its body slumped lifelessly to the ground, head still clamped to the gargoyle's shoulder with vice-like jaws. She snarled, agonizingly wrenching the thing's cranium from her flesh.

The abomination may have been human once but now it resembled nothing so much as a mummified corpse. Pale translucent skin stretched tight over a yellowed skull and a fanged maw dripping crimson.

Demona watched as the head began crumbling to dust in her very talons.

"Strigoi..." Vlad whispered with something between awe and revulsion. "The Undead. I'd heard stories but..."

The cavern was suddenly filled with a sound like the scuttling of countless gigantic rats. The two warriors stood back to back, weapons raised, as the darkness filled with dozens of hellishly burning eyes.

Demona swung her mace as a second revenant lunged for her still bleeding wound, sending the thing flying across the cavern. It landed on all fours cat-like and skittered forward, seemingly indifferent to the fact that half its skull had caved in.

"Sever their heads!" Vlad cried, helpfully demonstrating.

Demona quickly followed suit, sinking her talons into the unliving flesh off her attackers neck and tearing what remained of its skull loose with her bare hands. Yet for each revenant they dispatched, two more seemed to take its place.

In the end, the two warriors found themselves standing high atop a mound of crumbling pale flesh. It took all their strength just to stay on their feet. The remaining strigoi skittered back into the darkness, self-preservation winning out over the Red Thirst... for now.

"Filthy beasts..." Vlad spat, breathing heavily.

"We've wasted enough time here, come!" Demona snapped, loping on all fours down a low corridor.

Demona felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, the air ahead was practically charged with mystical energy. She turned a corner only to be stopped dead in her tracks by the sight that greeted her.

"By the Dragon..." she whispered.

Demona found herself overlooking an immense chamber, vast enough to have held Castle Wyvern. At its center stood four cyclopean stone megaliths that pulsed with an unnatural blue light, a maelstrom of magical energy swirling about them.

Before the Megalith Dance, stood the stolen hatchlings of the Carpathian Clan, still as though locked in stone sleep.

Demona leapt from her vantage point, landing just behind one of the hatchlings. She instantly recognized the night-winged, white-haired Carpathian.

"Come, child, this is no time to..." Demona reached out, only for her hand to pass through the hatchling's ghost-like form.

Behind her, the boy had just caught up. "What sorcery is this!?"

"Sorcery indeed!" a voice sing-songed in obscene joy, followed by an unhinged cackle that carried even over the tempest.

De Rais stood at the foot of the Dance, swirling cerulean light making his tattered robes seem black as the Pit by contrast. His face twisted in a rictus grin of deranged triumph.

"You're too late!" the Breton tittered in delight. "Soon my angels will completely shed their mortal shells! They shall ascend where I cannot, laying siege to the very gates of Heaven and finally liberating my Holy Virgin from the Tyrant's jealous grasp!"

"Your 'Holy Virgin' was nothing but a deluded peasant whore!" Demona snarled in rage, eyes flaring crimson.

"BLASPHEMY!" de Rais screamed, his grin instantly twisting into a paroxysm of pure rage. " _Ignis Venite!_ "

Demona and Vlad barely had time to take cover behind a pair of large stalagmites before a gigantic ball of azure flame came crashing down on the cavern floor.

"I have a plan!" Demona bellowed. "Get him between the megaliths!"

"How in God's name am I supposed to do that?" Vlad cried back.

"You're resourceful, Vlad. You'll think of something." she answered before diving into the shadows.

"De Rais!" Vlad shouted. "Let us set aside our sorcery and fight as the lion fights, for lordship? Unless the 'Hero of Orléans' only has the stomach for slaying children?"

"You __are__ a child, boy!" the Breton snapped. "But if dying by the blade is your preference, I'll happily... indulge you."

Vlad stepped forth from behind the stalagmite, eyes locked on his foe.

De Rais pulled back his robe to reveal a knightly sword sheathed at his hip, golden pommel fashioned in the shape of a _fleur-de-lis_. He drew it with a cold metallic hiss, immaculate blade shimmering in the azure light.

The Prince raised his own weapon high, still black with undead blood, and charged forward with a wolfish howl.

[-]

 ** **As above...****

The Leader of the Carpathian Clan soared low over the rolling gray mountains, desperately scanning the terrain below for any sign of their lost children. His heart twisted with a cold dread that would surely cripple him if he let it, even for a moment.

"Look westward," the Ancestor cried.

The Leader tilted his head west. A thin pillar of blue light seemed to be rising from the horizon into the heavens themselves.

"It's coming from somewhere in the Borgo Pass," the Ancestor remarked.

The Leader's eyes narrowed, burning pure white.

[-]

 ** **So below...****

Vlad slashed again and again, yet despite his fury, de Rais deflected and parried each blow with a cool grace that seemed to belie the Breton's madness.

"You have some talent, boy," de Rais mused as his blade casually blocked another thrust. "But I was the finest swordsman in all of France, and you're... what exactly? The exiled prince of a 'kingdom' little bigger than a table-cloth... or the Sultan's discarded plaything?"

Vlad raised his weapon high as the rage overtook him, ready to cleave the mad cur in twain, when the Breton's blade pierced the Prince's abdomen. Vlad felt his own saber-hilt slip from his fingers.

De Rais leaned closer, allowing his blade to further sink slowly, almost gently, into the Prince's flesh. His unblinking eyes were only inches from Vlad's own. "Who do you think you are, boy?"

Vlad's cold dark eyes snapped open, glaring into his foe's. The Prince's black pupils reflected no light, like endless pits of hate.

"I am Dracula," he whispered coldly.

De Rais blinked.

Vlad lunged forward, forcing both combatants between the massive stone pylons.

"YOU FOOL!" de Rais shrieked in panic as the swirling ice-blue energies suddenly turned blood-crimson. "You've broken the lines of power!"

Vlad silenced the mad fool with a fist to the jaw. He had just enough strength to stagger backward, slipping from the Breton's blade, falling down the stone steps leading up to the Dance like a marionette who's strings had been cut.

The last thing Vlad saw before darkness claimed him was de Rais cowering beneath a collapsing stone pylon.

[-]

Demona emerged from the shadows, thankful her plan had worked. It had been a simple enough matter to wait until the humans were in position before using her strength to topple one of the pylons.

Granted, she hadn't counted on the boy managing to hurl himself clear at the last moment but that hardly mattered. She casually stepped over his still bleeding form. If any life remained in him, the revenants would attend to it soon enough.

Demona knelt down before one of the hatchlings, reaching out with a trembling hand. Mercifully, the child was solid flesh and blood. More merciful still, she was breathing steadily.

"Whu... where..." the night-winged hatchling mumbled as she blinked, eyes widening at the sight of her rescuer. "You?"

"Yes, little one," Demona spoke, smiling in a manner she hoped was reassuring.

"The Ancestor said you were dead?"

Demona's expression soured. "Never mind that now. Help me rouse your brothers and sisters, so we can leave this forsaken place."

It only took a few moments to gather the other hatchlings. Demona was just about to lead them to the upper caverns when she felt something tug on her hand.

She looked down into the eyes of the night-winged hatchling. "What?"

"What about him?" The hatchling pointed to the limp bloody form of the boy.

"What about him?" Demona asked, genuinely confused.

"We can't just leave him," the hatchling implored. Hers were only two of a dozen young eyes that looked up at the elder gargoyle.

Demona's shoulders slumped as she let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine."

[-]

Vlad awoke to find himself limping weakly through the upper caves, his arm slung over Demona's shoulder. His hand reach down to feel his wound, tightly bound with strips of shredded cloth. "I'm... alive?"

"Save your strength," Demona spoke. "You've lost a lot of blood."

The Prince looked down to find about a dozen, diminutive bat-like creatures walking or loping on all fours beside them. Most of them were no larger than a human eight year old. Several of them, a night-winged female in particular, stared up at him with something between curiosity and fear.

"They've never seen a human this close before," Demona answered his unspoken question.

They finally emerged into the clear night air. Vlad barely had time to savor a fresh breath when several winged shapes descended from the starry sky above.

They were like the young in all respects save for their imposing size and fierce aspect. One in particular, was a red hued giant who put Vlad in mind of the legendary Attila.

"Father!" the night-winged hatchling cried joyously as she ran into his waiting arms, her rookery siblings swiftly followed.

"My children," the red giant choked, tears streaming down his cheeks as his vast wings enveloped the hatchlings tenderly. "Thank Heaven you're safe."

"These two saved us!" the hatchling spoke, pointing to Demona and Vlad. "Can she rejoin the Clan?"

"We... we shall see," the Leader spoke before turning to his second, a twilight-purple behemoth. "Take them back to the rookery, the Ancestor and I shall follow shortly."

The rest of the clan took wing, leaving only the red giant and a pale grey crone in a dark hooded shawl. "What happened?" the giant intoned.

"The children were captured by a human sorcerer," Demona began. "I... we liberated them."

"This sorcerer..." The red giant's eyes narrowed. "He is dead?"

"Yes," Demona answered, a slight smile of pride curling her lips.

"Fortunate... for him," the red giant intoned.

"Was he a Solomonar?" the gray crone asked.

Demona fell silent.

"I warned you nothing but evil would come of trafficking with the Scholomance, Demona."

"She just saved your children," Vlad spat. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Our children mean everything to us," the red giant growled. "But... the Ancestor is right. You cannot rejoin the Clan."

"So be it," was Demona's only response. She watched silently as the two Carpathians once more took to the sky, leaving her utterly alone once more.

"Ungrateful peasants," Vlad sneered. "You're better than them."

"Come," Demona sighed. "Dawn isn't that fa..." Before she could utter another word, thorn-barbed vines suddenly burst from the ground. The vines coiled about the two mortals' necks and wrists with viper-like speed, anchoring them to the earth. Pale blue roses blossomed forth with chill beauty.

"I was so close," a voice hissed from up above.

Demona and Vlad craned their necks to see an eldritch figure floating in mid-air above them.

His tattered blue robes had been restored to their original splendor, a set of gold keys and a silver scimitar hanging from a sapphire encrusted belt. His filth-matted beard was now slick, neatly trimmed and a deep midnight-blue. Even his skin was a pale corpse-like blue. The insane lust had cleared from his eyes, replaced by a calculated cruelty that was no less rapacious.

"De Rais?" Vlad gasped in shock, rose thorns digging into his neck.

"Yes... and no," the blue-bearded specter spoke, taking a courtly bow. " _Barbe Bleue_ , the Elf Knight, at your service, __mon Prince__ _._ "

"You were a Child of Oberon this whole time?!" Demona snarled.

"Why so shocked, __Mademoiselle Gargouille__ _?_ Did not the Usurper condemn the Third Race to live among mortals for a millennium?" The Elf Knight floated closer. "I used to love being Gilles de Rais. He had power, wealth, women, everything a man could desire."

Demona recoiled as the Elf Knight reached out, plucking a single blue rose from the vines coiled about her throat.

"Then... Gilles met __Her__ ," the Elf Knight whispered softly, cradling the eldritch bloom in the palm of his hand. "She was his salvation, the living proof of God's love for this broken world."

Silence filled the ruins for a long moment.

"Then... they burned her alive!" the Elf Knight hissed. Azure flames reducing the rose to black ash. "Something in Gilles' mind shattered. Night by night he sank further into decadence and depravity. I murdered six of my own wives without a hint of remorse. Yet I watched through Gilles' own eyes as he did things that would blast even my soul... if I had one."

"But... de Rais... was executed for his crimes?" Vlad wheezed. "How are you even still alive?"

"To be perfectly frank, __mon Prince__ , I'm not quite certain myself," The Elf Knight tilted his head in bemusement. "When one of my kind is slain in mortal form, there is no return. But after losing consciousness on the rope, Gilles awoke in a rat-infested inn just outside Orléans. Naturally, he attributed his good fortune to divine intercession on the part of his 'Holy Virgin'."

"For my part, I thought I could simply cast Gilles aside like an old cloak." The Elf Knight tapped his temples with a single slender finger. "But he's still in here. Every second of every day, I can feel him scratching... clawing at the walls of my mind, trying to get out!"

Demona and Vlad exchanged a desperate look, as their captor became ever more unhinged.

"I thought if I could find a way to bring back our Holy Virgin, I could finally be free!" The Elf Knight ranted. "But I couldn't do it with my own magic, not without violating Oberon's precious Law! I had to use mortal magic! I had to become Gilles again! But it was all worth it..."

Demona and Vlad suddenly wrenched as the vines tightened about their throats, choking the air from their lungs!"

"Until you two ruined everything!" the Elf Knight shrieked, his wide unblinking eyes staring directly into Demona's own. "But I still have the flute! I can bring back my angels anytime I want! You hear me, you winged __putain de merde__ _?_ You accomplished nothing! I will liberate the Holy Virgin from the Tyrant's grasp even if I have to bleed every gargoyle hatchling in Creation dry!"

 _ _No... I think not...__

Gargoyle, human and Child were suddenly enveloped in pale green mist. Demona and Vlad fell to their knees, gasping for breath as the vines restraining them swiftly withered away.

As the mists parted, all three suddenly found themselves standing within a vast cavern. Looming over them, seated upon an onyx throne, sat a titanic dark green gargoyle.

His legs ended in great cloven hooves. His webbed talons were steepled before a shadow-shrouded face from whence could be discerned only two eyes that burned like hellish coals. At his side stood a half-naked Sycorax, her arms languidly draped over the fiend's shoulders.

"Setebos!?" the Elf Knight bellowed. "You have no right to-"

" _Prince_ Setebos," the School Master hissed. "And I have every right, _Barbe Bleue_. Do you have any concept of the damage you almost did? Not enough that you risk drawing Oberon's attention to my school, but you had to invite the wrath of the Death Gods as well?"

"Oh spare me your pretensions, __Prince__ Setebos," the Elf Knight drawled. Making the word 'prince' sound like a slur. "I can't believe I wasted two years of my existence playing into this sad little pantomime you've concocted for yourself!"

"Enough..." Setebos intoned.

"You, boy!" The Elf Knight rounded on Vlad. "Do you truly believe t _his is_ the Adversary of your Scripture? Do you actually believe the Morning Star, God's first and most radiant creation, would waste His time squatting in a cave teaching you how to talk to wolves? Do you really think Satan has goat feet?"

"ENOUGH!" Setebos roared, drawing to his full height. The shadows of the cavern seemed to darken, mirroring the depths of his rage.

The Elf Knight suddenly fell deathly silent.

"Revert," Setebos commanded, pointing a single webbed talon. The Elf Knight was instantly enveloped in a faery blue light that shifted and twisted until the cowering mortal form of Gilles de Rais once more stood in its place.

"Mercy, School Master!" The wild-eyed Breton threw himself before the black throne, whimpering like a beaten dog. "It was _Barbe Bleue!_ He's the one who said all those terrible things, not me! I adore you! I worship you as Our Father Below!"

"Gilles de Montmorency-Laval; Baron de Rais," Setebos echoed. "By the laws of the Scholomance, by the terms of the compact we entered, I claim you as my fee; mind, body... and soul."

Shadows slithered from the corners of the cavern, forming a pool of darkness at de Rais' feet. Countless ink-black talons suddenly burst forth from the pool, clutching at de Rais' tattered robes, filth-matted beard and very flesh.

"NO! NO! NO! MASTER! FORGIVE ME!" the Breton screamed and writhed as he slowly sunk deeper and deeper into the liquid darkness.

"If it was forgiveness you desired, de Rais," Setebos whispered coldly, watching as the Breton was consumed completely. "You sought it in the wrong place."

An instant later, the shadows slithered back to their hiding places, leaving nothing but bare stone where Gilles de Rais once stood.

"Oh, I almost forgot you two were still there," Setebos turned to Demona and Vlad, who gaped silently. "I suppose you'll want some form of recompense for your efforts? Well, let it never be said that I left a debt unpaid."

A thin tendril of green mist coiled about Demona's hand coalescing into a solid form she instantly recognized. "The Puck's Flute!?"

"My only condition is that you not use it within the Scholomance." Setebos turned to Vlad. "Don't worry, Little Dragon. I haven't forgotten about you."

More green mist curled about Vlad's shoulders, solidifying into the form of a great black wolf-pelt.

"You are now a _Hexenwulf_ , Little Dragon. You need only will it, and this skin will allow you to assume the form of the beast who originally wore it." Setebos intoned. "Now if there is nothing else, you are both dismissed... for now."

"Thank you, School Master," the two mortals inclined their heads before withdrawing hastily from the chamber.

Once they were gone, Setebos directed his gaze upward at three small bats who clung to the cavern's ceiling. "I trust you are satisfied?"

The three creatures were colored gold-yellow, coal-black and moon-white respectively. They chittered something intelligible only to the School Master, before fluttering off into the darkness.

"I am sorry, my love," Sycorax cooed soothingly. "I know you had your heart set on claiming the Wallachian."

"Perhaps it is for the best, dear heart. The boy has potential but he has yet to be properly tempered," Setebos mused.

"And de Rais?" Sycorax inquired.

"I suppose I'll have to release him eventually. It will look suspicious if he doesn't show up for the Gathering."

Setebos opened his palm, summoning a ball of shimmering blue fire. It wasn't unlike the countless wisps that inhabited this land, save for the blue-bearded face that seemed to writhe in agony within.

"Well... no matter."

[-]

 ** **Orléans, France, 1440 A.D.****

De Rais' breathing was labored as he lay on the straw matted cot, writhing in the throes of his delirium. The skin of his throat had been rubbed bloody and raw by the hangman's noose. A young maid with short-cropped hair, who appeared no older than nineteen, sat by his bedside.

"It's time," a voice spoke.

The maid turned toward the doorway where stood a beautiful but intense woman, clad in a rich green gown even a queen would envy. Her platinum blond hair was tied in a thick almost rope-like braid.

Behind her awaited yet two more young women. One was a dark-skinned Persian bedecked with gold. The other was pale, clad in a hood of samite and a silver ring inset with a single shimmering blue gem.

"Please, my Queen, just a little while longer," the maid requested. "'Til his fever breaks?"

"Zhade, Nimue, wait outside and prepare for Castle Carbonek's arrival," Queen Blanchefleur spoke. "We'll join you shortly."

The young women inclined their heads respectfully before withdrawing silently.

"I still don't understand why you insisted on coming here," Blanchefleur sighed, pulling up a stool next to the maid. "If even half the things they say about this... animal are true?"

"They said many of the same things about _me_ ," the maid answered.

"That was different," Blanchefleur insisted. " _ _You__ are different."

"He was a hero once," the maid spoke softly. Whatever his crimes, he's as entitled to mercy as any other sinner,"

"You really believe that, don't you?" Blanchefleur spoke softly.

"You are the Grail Queen," the maid turned to look Blanchefleur directly in the eye. "How can you not?"

Blanchefleur fell silent for a long while, she had no real answer to such a question. Sometimes even she forgot who and what the maid truly was. "Come," she finally spoke, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder."We should leave before he wakes."

The Maid of Orléans nodded wordlessly before following her Queen, leaving Gilles de Rais alone in the darkness.

His ravaged throat forced a thin rasp of air through tortured lips, forming a single word...

"Jeanne..?"

 _ ** **The End...?****_


	4. The Dark Prince

Gargoyles _,_ _co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney company._ Dracula _, created by Bram Stoker, is the property of everyone._

 _Special thanks, as always, to Gryphinwrym7, Masterdramon, GregX and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta-reading and feedback._

* * *

 _"_ _ _All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.__ _ _"__

 _ _~Matthew 4:9__

 **Walpurgisnacht, 1456 A.D.**

Demona swiftly clambered up the cold gray cliff-face of the nameless mountain that overlooked the Black Lake. She resented having to waste her time on such an errand on this of all nights.

The School Master had prepared a Witch's Sabbath in the forest below to celebrate their graduation. Unsurprisingly, the fiend had made very clear to all nine scholars that attendance and full Solomonari regalia were not optional.

Demona had bitten her tongue. After tonight, she would no longer have to humor the false devil. After tonight, she would finally put the knowledge and power amassed over the past four years to good use. But first, she had one last matter to attend to.

She leapt over the lip of the rocky ledge onto the mountain's peak. There stood a tall silent figure clad in the bone-white hooded robes of a Solomonar, staring out over the valley below.

"FitzGerald said you wished to speak with me before the Sabbath?" Demona inquired.

The figure turned, lowering its hood. Four years of dwelling in the depths of the Scholomance had rendered his face pale and gaunt. A heavy dark mustache now hang over his lupine jaw. "A beautiful night, is it not?"

"Please tell me you did not summon me here to admire the landscape, Vlad" she drawled.

"Your directness is always refreshing, my dear," He chuckled darkly. "After tonight, I intend to return to the court of John Hunyadi, Regent of Hungary, to petition his support in reclaiming my throne. I would like you to come with me."

Demona's eyes widened. "You cannot be serious?"

"Hunyadi is... many things," he spoke. "But he is not an impractical man, and I can be most persuasive. Rally the gargoyles of the Carpathians to my banner, Demona, and I promise that under my rule, no fool will dare raise a hand against you or your kin."

He stretched his arms wide, encompassing the surrounding lands. "All of this could be ours, if you would but rule at my side?"

Demona fell silent for a long moment, surveying the expanses below her. To the north rolled an endless sea of dark green forests. Tiny blue wisps flickered among the trees, guarding ancient treasures. The red light of Hermannstadt glowed just beyond the horizon.

To the south lay the mist shrouded plains of Wallachia. For one heady moment, she saw herself leading a clan once more, not as desperate survivors or glorified border guards... but as conquerors.

Then she saw the Prince standing before her, extending his hand in expectation. There was something gleaming darkly in his eyes, something that... hungered.

"No," she finally spoke.

The Prince stood silent for a long moment "Pardon?"

"Someone I once trusted sang the same song you do... before butchering my clan! And frankly, Vlad," She turned towards the rocky ledge, spreading her wings. "I liked _him_ a lot more than I like you."

The Prince watched silently as the crimson-maned gargoyle took wind. His open hand clenched into a tight fist, talon-like nails drawing a small trickle of scarlet from his own palm.

[-]

The nine Solomonari walked through the hidden mountain gorge in a slow silent procession, each clad in all-concealing hooded white robes. Vlad took up the rear, simmering with cold rage.

He had visions of himself arriving at the Hungarian court flanked by a vanguard of gargoyle warriors. Between that and the secrets he'd learned in the Scholomance, he had little doubt bending Hunyadi's will to his own would have been child's play.

But Demona had dashed those hopes with a word. Did she have no gratitude? Did she not understand what he was offering? He would make her understand. If it took a millennium, he would see her bow before him, worshiping him, offering herself to him; mind, body and soul.

A pebble struck the Prince's hooded head, hardly large enough to cause any real harm or even discomfort, but it was enough to snap him out of his reveries.

Vlad craned his neck upwards just in time to catch a glimpse of two diminutive winged figures ducking behind a rocky out-cropping. His lips curled back in a wolfish leer.

Perhaps tonight would not be a complete waste?

 _ **Never the End...**_


End file.
